


That time in Venice

by chamyl



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1750 forking, Anal, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dress Up, Emotional Sex, Face-Fucking, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, I feel that there should be a straps tag, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Romance, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Smut, Top Crowley (Good Omens), in this house we do not write PWPs where Crowley is in love and Aziraphale is cold and withholding, in this house we protect our dumb demon son, in which Aziraphale is a bit too taken with Crowley’s boots, is there a straps tags, straps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 16:56:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamyl/pseuds/chamyl
Summary: Aziraphale turns to look at him and he’s welcomed by a vision of black and scarlet. A striking contrast to everyone’s whites and silvers.The man is wearing a pair of boots Aziraphale finds almost outrageous. They’re black suede, and end right over his knees. Their heels are just a little too high, and the suede wraps around lean ankles just a little too cheekily.~~~Crowley comes to Aziraphale’s rescue, helping him get into his costume before the masquerade. Except he’ll end up helping with a little more than that.





	That time in Venice

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this except that I watched BBC’s Casanova (the one with David Tennant in it).  
> And I oop.

How has a day that started so well turned out so wrong?

Aziraphale had begun preparing for the masquerade way ahead of time. He hired the best costume maker in all of Venice – possibly in the whole country. Which meant in the entire old continent. And Mastro Giuseppe had done an exquisite job.

Technically, he didn’t _need_ such an expensive, striking costume. But he loves it. It’s so beautiful, and the fabrics are so soft and delicate under his fingers. It fits him perfectly. It’s rather hard to put on, yes – but that couldn’t be helped. Everyone knows that to get into the ambassador’s yearly masquerade you need three things. You need connections, which will place your name on his list. You need an invitation, otherwise you shouldn’t bother showing up. You need an elaborate costume, and it has to fit that year’s particular theme. People will talk all year long about what everyone wore – until the next masquerade, that is.

This year theme, reticently named ‘ _Divine_ ’, is one Aziraphale is quite comfortable with. In truth, he’s missed it a bit – his true form. There will be no better excuse than this one to walk around on Earth in something akin to his actual shape. So he jumped at the chance, and commissioned an angel costume.

And what a lovely thing it is. A triumph of pearly white and sea foam blue, with impossibly big wings to match. This will definitely get him into the masquerade. And if it gets him too much attention, that’s a good thing. He needs the ambassador’s trust and friendship to influence him, as per his heavenly orders. They will be properly introduced, and then he’ll make his way into his graces.

However, at the moment, he’s quite far from calling this a successful evening. He hadn’t quite considered just how difficult it would be to put on his costume. His attendant, a dear young man who knows better than to ask many questions, is sick. Something that makes him throw up frequently and suddenly. Aziraphale made sure it was nothing lethal, and left him to get better on his own. Which is always better, as it doesn’t raise suspicions.

Now he’s in trouble, though, because the usher at the ambassador’s residence won’t let him in. This might be due not so much to the usher’s difficult character. Rather, it’s due to the fact that Aziraphale left his costume in the carriage, unable to put it on by himself.

He waves the invite in the usher’s face, uselessly.

“Like I said, you absolutely cannot come in without a costume, sir.” The usher insists, with a thick accent.

Aziraphale huffs. Of course, he could distract him and sneak in, but that wouldn’t solve the problem. If the usher doesn’t think his expensive, elegant clothes are enough to get in, that’s a signal. Even if he did find a way inside, everyone would stare at him. He’d be out of place, and his job at risk. The usher is more of a meter for the best course of action to take, really.

As he argues, he spots, with the corner of his eye, a dashing, stylish man standing to his right. Aziraphale turns to look at him and he’s welcomed by a vision of black and scarlet. A striking contrast to everyone’s whites and silvers.

The man is wearing a pair of boots Aziraphale finds almost outrageous. They’re black suede, and end right over his knees. Their heels are just a little too high, and the suede wraps around lean ankles just a little too cheekily. They have to be custom made. At this time and place in history, high boots are customary. As are black shoes, as is suede. But Aziraphale had yet to see them all combined quite like that. Of course, the legs that wear the boots have their own merits.

A simple pair of black pants offsets the boots, disappearing into them at the knee. Then there’s a vest with an intricate black and scarlet design on the chest. Tight black gloves swallow the man’s hands, up to half his forearms. To complete the look, he has on a scarlet cape with long puffy sleeves, tucked into the confines of his gloves.

Lazy curls adorn his forehead and hide part of his ears, fiery red hair poking out from behind his mask. The mask itself might be the shabbiest part of his outfit. A simple black piece hiding the bridge of his nose, his cheekbones, and all the area around his eyes. Small, irreverent horns finish it off, sticking out among his curls. Aziraphale suspects it’s meant to be a sarcastic commentary on the subject of masquerades in general[1].

“What seems to be the problem here?”

The man leans against the usher’s desk with a devilish smile. Aziraphale would recognize that voice – and that shit-eating grin – anywhere in the world.

“Crowley?”

The masked man blinks, an exaggerated look of surprise on his face. Aziraphale notices the holes of the mask are lined with lace, making it harder to see his golden eyes. “You must be mistaking me for someone else, sir.”

Aziraphale lifts an irritated eyebrow at him. “And who might you be, then?”

“Why, just a concerned passer-by, coming to your rescue.” Crowley smiles. Aziraphale scrunches his face into a frown.

The usher has to tap on his desk with his fingers to get them to stop staring at one other and look at him. “Gentlemen, like I was saying, you cannot enter unless you’re wearing a costume.”

Aziraphale immediately points at Crowley. “Is he allowed to come in?”

The usher’s eyes linger just a little too long on his suede clad legs. “Yes, he’s allowed in.”

“ _Excuse me_?!” Aziraphale is exasperated. The man explicatively points at Crowley’s ridiculously small horns. “Listen, good man. I’ll have you know my costume is in my carriage, I simply ran into some trouble trying to put it on.”

“No costume, no entrance. No exceptions.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth to speak, but he’s cut off by Crowley stepping in front of him to talk to the usher directly.

“Non è che, per caso… vi capita di avere una stanza libera da qualche parte? Così che il gentiluomo qui si possa cambiare, mi capite.”

“Signore, mi mettete in imbarazzo. Non mi è permesso rispondere a questa domanda.”

Aziraphale looks from Crowley to the usher and back again, mouth slightly agape. Of course. Crowley was a good friend of Leonardo Da Vinci; it goes without saying that he can speak the language with ease. Aziraphale seems to keep forgetting that the demon occasionally has friends. Friends that aren’t him, that is.

He sees Crowley pulling a small bag out of the folds of his cape. He slides it discreetly over the desk and then off the edge on the usher’s side, just so that the man will catch it with ease. After a beat, during which Aziraphale would guess he’s weighing the bag, the usher gestures to his right.

“Percorrete il corridoio alla vostra destra fino in fondo. Salite le scale. Terza porta sulla sinistra. E, per l’amor del cielo, bussate prima di entrare.”

“Much obliged.” Crowley smiles impishly at him and turns back to the angel. “Get your costume. We have a room you can change in. Mr…?”

“Fell.” Aziraphale hears himself reply. Although why he’s playing along with Crowley’s dumb game remains a mystery to him. He directs them towards his carriage. “As you very well know.”

“I most certainly did not. And if I did, Mr. Fell,” He tilts his head to lock eyes with him through the holes in his mask. “If I did know who you were, it would be much more convenient for both of us _not_ to know each other. We wouldn’t want to risk being seen _fraternising_ , would we now?”

“Fraternising,” Aziraphale repeats, understanding dawning on him. “Right.”

When they get to the carriage, the angel nods at the coachman and steps into it.

“Hold out your arms.” He calls back to Crowley.

“Wha—”

Before he can protest, Crowley’s arms are weighed down by a series of items: a heavy, silky garment bag, a square box the size of a watermelon and two other small, round boxes.

Aziraphale gets out of the carriage and hurries back towards the building. Crowley is left with nothing to do except follow him, trying very hard not to drop anything. “Oi! Could have carried something yourself.”

“And why ever would I do that, when you’re such a helpful, concerned ‘ _passer-by_ ’?” Aziraphale retorts with a smile. Crowley looks at him pointedly, but doesn’t argue.

The demon and his boots – frankly, quite scandalous, the more Aziraphale looks at them the more he thinks so – lead the way inside the building. They go up a flight of stairs, then Crowley opens, without knocking first, a door. He gestures for Aziraphale to get inside.

It’s a small bedroom, probably used by less important guests of the ambassadors. There’s a canopy bed made of dark wood with pink, heavy covers. There’s a dresser, a desk with a chair, two bedside tables, and a big mirror in one corner.

Its only window gives on the interior courtyard. It’s filled with candles and music and people dancing. Crowley unloads his arms on the bed and tugs the curtains closed. Aziraphale miracles a little light at the centre of the ceiling.

“So,” Crowley leans his back against a wall and looks him over. Aziraphale is reminded of a snake assessing its prey. As the door magically locks behind him, it first dawns on him that they’re in a bedroom alone. He has to wonder whether Crowley asked the usher for a room, or a bedroom specifically[2]. “Walk me through it.”

The angel goes to the bed, starting with the smaller boxes.

“Well…” He opens up the two round boxes, showing Crowley several silver bracelets. “These are meant for my ankles and wrists.”

Crowley fingers one of the bracelets and holds it up to look at it closely. He shakes it. It jingles. He looks interrogatively at Aziraphale. “Seriously?”

“Er, that is quite ingenious, if you ask me. It’s meant to evocate heavenly harmonies with every step.”

Crowley looks for a moment like he’s about to say something else, but gives up before doing so. “Go on.”

Aziraphale hesitates for a second, then gets the bigger box. Inside there’s velvet headband, with a latch to tie it on the back of the neck. From the headband stick out several silver and crystal stars, big and small. It’s quite a beautiful piece of jewellery. But suddenly Aziraphale is feeling self-conscious.

“Really now?”

“Well, I thought it was fitting. Allow me to remind you that this masquerade is supposed to be over the top.” He glances at the small horns on Crowley’s mask with a tinge of irritation. “And angels are supposed to be ethereal beings of Light and Love—”

“And crepes.”

“And— _no_.”

“So you’re going as an angel, then?” Crowley touches the point of a star. “Bit too on the nose, isn’t it?”

“You’re one to talk!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Fell. I am but a mere mortal.”

“Of course you are.” Aziraphale glares at him, but he’s resigned to this game already. “Either way, I thought it’d be quite liberating, for once, to be able to show myself.”

“Well, not quite show yourself—”

“You know what I mean.”

Crowley gives him a hint of a smirk and caresses the big garment bag. “And what about your pièce de résistance, here?”

Aziraphale feels a blush beginning to settle on his cheeks. “Those are… my wings.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Listen, Crowley—”

“Not Crowley.”

“The theme is _‘Divine_ ’. The ambassador’s tastes are very sophisticated, and I had the best men in the city work on this costume.”

“And then didn’t know how to put it on.”

“My attendant is very sick.”

“And you couldn’t find somebody else?” Now that’s a good question. To answer it truthfully would be very hard. Aziraphale should explain that, lately, he’s become more comfortable with uncertainty. He’s grown used to the idea that, if things go bad, Crowley will show up and fix them for him. He should argue that the demon has slowly become a sort of demonic guardian angel, in a sense. Putting out his fires whenever needed. Can Aziraphale be blamed? Crowley has just done it again, with the ambassador’s usher, appearing at the exact moment he needed him.

Or was it the moment he wanted to see him?

Either way.

“This is very fine, expensive jewellery. And the price for the wings was ludicrous. I can’t have just anyone do this.”

Crowley lifts an eyebrow above his mask. He reaches out to hold, between two fingertips, one of the strings keeping the garment bag closed. He makes a show of keeping his pinky aristocratically raised. “May I have this honour?”

Aziraphale nods, and Crowley pulls. He does the same to the other strings, until he’s revealed a huge pair of white wings, folded one over the other. He tries to lift them up.

“These are very heavy. How are you going to be able to wear them?”

Aziraphale worries at his hands as he steps closer. He pulls thick straps of ribbon from underneath the wings. “I’ve tried them on. Once the straps are in place, I’m able to move around without much of a problem.”

“Except narrow doors.”

“Are you here to help or to make fun of me?” Aziraphale can’t help sounding a bit upset.

“Jury’s still out on that one.” Then, Crowley sighs at the angel’s distressed expression, softened. “To help you, of course, Mr. Fell.”

“I was starting to doubt that.”

“But you have to admit you went above and beyond target. You could have just asked me for help, rather than running around town and paying a pretty penny for something so cumbersome.”

Aziraphale wants to say that not anyone can pull off the kind of shameless boots Crowley is sporting. But he refrains. It sounds a little too much like a compliment, and not of the innocent type.

“Well, it’s done now.”

Crowley looks over the arrangement on the bed. “Where do we start?” Then back at Aziraphale. “And how are you going to wear these wings, anyway? Won’t the straps show?”

Aziraphale turns around to show him the slits in his jacket. They start at his shoulder blades and drag all the way down along the length of the jacket. “Everything I’m wearing was made for this special occasion.” No need to sacrifice any of his old, precious clothes. “The straps will be hidden underneath.”

“Underneath your clothes.” Crowley states, matter-of-factly.

Aziraphale is about to reply _yes, indeed_ when he hears what Crowley is saying. When he feels the shape of what Crowley is thinking.

“ _Over my underclothes_.” He replies, the words spat out so fast they almost trip over one another.

Why is this so embarrassing? It shouldn’t be. It’s not as if he’ll be naked – and besides, there have been plenty of times and places in history where nudity was the norm. The two of them were naked around each other all the time, way back when.

That was a long time ago, though. What’s changed since then?

Crowley gives a non-committal nod. “Go on then.” He gestures vaguely at Aziraphale’s jacket. “If you still want to do this.”

Mercifully, he turns to look outside the window, peeking through a gap in the curtains.

Aziraphale lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and begins undressing. He takes off his sea foam blue jacket, his pearly white shirt and his mint green cravat. He takes a second to check that Crowley is still staring out the window – he is, for the record, although his gaze is so fixed it would seem he’s not seeing anything at all – and unbuttons his white pants. He slips out of his pretty silk shoes and shrugs his pants off. He folds everything neatly on the chair, leaves the shoes on the floor.

When he’s down to his undershirt, underpants, and stockings, he wrings his hands, unsure of what to do next.

“We should start from the jewellery. Leave the wings for later.” Crowley says, and Aziraphale is very glad to be given some input.

The demon takes one fine bracelet in his gloved hand, then steps closer and reaches for Aziraphale’s arm. He places the bracelet around his wrist, and tries to get the clasp to cooperate. He fails. He bites down on one the index finger of his gloves, taking it off with his teeth – his ridiculously sharp, white teeth, sinking effortlessly into the black of his glove. Aziraphale averts his gaze. Crowley removes the second glove in the same way.

He secures three bracelets around the angel’s wrist. Then, he takes his palm between forefinger and thumb, and gives it a gentle shake. It jingles like a pocketful of change.

“That’s going to be so irritating.”

“It’s supposed to be—”

“I know.” Crowley leaves the wrist he’s done with, motions at him to raise the other. “ _Angelic._ ”

Aziraphale glares, but gives him the other arm. He’s glad Crowley’s eyes are focused on his hand, because whenever they’re so close, the angel doesn’t trust his face. He feels his cheeks begin to pink, and this time not because he’s embarrassed of his unpractical costume.

“Done. Sit down so I can do your ankles.”

Aziraphale moves to the bed, sitting on the very edge of it. His wrists jingle with every movement – unlike Crowley, he loves the futility of it. It’s superfluous, it’s camp, it’s just the right amount of extravagant. And besides, when else would he get the chance?

He’s distracted from his thoughts by the fact that Crowley is crouching down on one knee in front of him. His yellow eyes stab at him through the mask for a split second, and Aziraphale feels his mouth dry. He doesn’t ask himself why – that’s a dangerous train of thought he doesn’t want to take.

Crowley cradles the arch of his foot in his bare hand, and Aziraphale feels the warmth through his delicate stocking. As his breath begins to quicken, he doubles down on his efforts. He needs to lock down the part of his brain that is malfunctioning. Put it in quarantine until the risk has passed.

What risk? Aziraphale is not sure, doesn’t dare dwell on it – vaguely, he’s aware he’s inching closer and closer to doing something he’ll regret.

Crowley puts the angel’s foot on his own bent knee, long fingers working to dress the ankle in silver. When he switches between one foot and the other, delicately, almost tenderly, Aziraphale shivers, although he’s neither hot nor cold.

He gives himself something to do by reaching for the headband. When Crowley is done, the angel is quick to stand up and go to the mirror, the sound of tiny bells all around him as he moves.

“This I can do by myself.” He explains, though he didn’t need to.

“I would hope so.” Crowley replies, and yet he comes up behind him, straightening it for him. Aziraphale pretends to be very busy adjusting the bracelets on his wrists.

When he looks up, he sees in the mirror that Crowley has moved back to the bed, and he’s studying the wings. “Five pairs of fastenings.” He disentangles the straps, opens the wings. “Where do they go?”

Aziraphale does his best to keep a neutral voice. “Arms, legs, and waist.” Internally, though, he’s berating himself. Why didn’t this seem weird at all at the shop? Why was this so normal when he tried on the wings with his attendant and Mastro Giuseppe? How could he not foresee how _charged_ the simple action of getting his costume on would be with Crowley?

Then again, he’s always been good at not seeing what he doesn’t want to see, at not thinking about what he wants to ignore.

He panics for a second when Crowley’s gaze goes from the bed to the desk and to the bed again. If he asks him to lie down on either, he’ll have to say no. But Crowley seems to intercept that thought, and, with a gesture of his hand, has the wings standing up on their own. He has them float across the room until they’re behind Aziraphale.

Then, he comes closer.

His fingers start working on the straps that tie the wings to Aziraphale’s left shoulder – under and around his armpit. The angel is sure that, in that moment, they are in agreement about three things.

The first is that, obviously, Aziraphale could have done the same. He could have used a little miracle to lift the wings from the bed.

The second is that, as it follows, either of them could have miracled the straps to buckle around his limbs and body. There wouldn’t have been any touching involved.

The third is that neither of them is going to mention either of those things out loud.

Aziraphale looks up at the ceiling, pressing his tongue against the upper arch of his teeth. He can’t remember the last time they’ve been so close, alone in a room, completely sober. He wishes he had a bottle of wine to take the edge off right now. But, maybe, being tipsy would lead to disastrous consequences.

Crowley is finishing with his arms. When he’s secured the wings around both shoulders, he reaches out on either side of Aziraphale’s waist. He pulls on the straps, and the angel feels his knees buckling and stumbles forward. He’s pressed against the demon’s body just for a second, before pulling back.

“Sorry, I’m—” What? What is he? Unsteady? Unable to control himself? Idly wondering whether he’s been planning this all along, in a subconscious partition of his mind? Barely able to watch as the resolve he’s kept intact for centuries, if not millennia, helplessly crumbles down under Crowley’s gentle touches?

“It’s fine.” The demon says, but his voice sounds hoarse and just as wobbly as Aziraphale feels. He locks eyes with him as he pulls on a strap, buckling it around the angel’s waist without looking down.

Then, he goes down on his knees again, staring up at him. He reaches out for the last two pairs of straps, the ones that go around his thighs.

If asked why he finds the sight so unbearably erotic, Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to answer. Not without coming apart at the seams and admitting a long string of desires and needs he’s kept securely tucked away for as long as he’s been on this earth. Not without putting a greedy hand on that head, ruffling his curls, beckoning him closer.

He keeps stock-still as Crowley buckles the strap that wraps under his left butt cheek and around his thigh. He rips his eyes away from the demon and stares at the wall in front of him.

When Crowley is done with the last strap, the one on the right, he stops for a second. Then, he inserts his hands under the straps on both thighs. Fingers wide open, he starts stroking from Aziraphale’s groin to his hips, then back again. He could be innocently adjusting the straps. Both of them know he isn’t.

A breathy moan escapes the angel’s lips and his hand snaps to his mouth. That’s when he realizes that an Effort has happened completely on its own, and it’s visibly pressing against the material of his underpants. The fabric is so thin, so sheer. He prays to God’s mercy to be discorporated right there and then. He can’t bear this.

When he dares look down, he’s met with a look of pure, unadulterated _want_ on Crowley’s face. The demon licks his lips and his mouth hovers over the tip of his hard cock, breath hot and wet even through the fabric.

He needs to stop this. He needs to say something. He needs to protest.

“Crowley, we… we can’t. We shouldn’t.”

“Good thing I’m not Crowley, then.” The demon replies without skipping a beat, lips barely brushing against his erection.

Aziraphale bites down on his lower lip, and tries to picture it. If this were just a normal human, would it be different? That’s impossible, of course, no mortal could wear boots like that. No mortal could walk with that shameless swing of hips, tempting Aziraphale to reach out and grab him. No mortal could hit him in the face with the sheer force of his love, leaving him breathless. Demons aren’t supposed to be able to do that. They just aren’t. Then again – angels aren’t supposed to love them back. Nor are they supposed to burn with the desire to offer their cocks to a demon’s mouth and leave themselves at his mercy. With horror, he feels the tip of his cock leak through his underpants.

But if he imagines, for a moment, that this is just any mortal… then sure. There are no explicit rules against it.

He’s trying to focus on that thought when Crowley presses his tongue flat against his cock, damp fabric and all. “Tell me to stop.” He says, making him wetter still as he takes the tip between his lips. Aziraphale can hardly breathe, let alone speak.

Crowley makes his way up, scrunching up Aziraphale’s undershirt until he’s stopped by the strap around his waist. “Tell me to stop.” He says again, leaving a kiss right below his navel, on bare skin. Aziraphale responds with a sharp intake of breathe.

When the demon is fully standing, and sinking his perfect teeth into the side of Aziraphale’s neck, he whispers, hot and wet against his ear, once again, “Tell me to stop.”

And that’s the last drop. Aziraphale grabs him not too gently, both hands into his hair, and then he’s kissing him, hungrily, urgently, without any restraint. He’s so forceful he pushes them towards the bed, then topples them over, laying Crowley on his back.

His starry crown is the first thing to fall.

* * *

What happens next is a mess – a mess of hands, lips, whimpers, millennia of barely repressed desire crushing down over the two of them and carrying them away. Crowley’s body bends and yields under his touch, desperate to please, which is just as well because Aziraphale wants all of him, all, all, all. This is a hunger like none he’s ever experienced – this is desperation and need and everything’s forgotten in that instant. Heaven, Hell, anything in between.

There’s only the two of them, the tangled chaos of their limbs, and Aziraphale only knows he’s grabbing at one of those preposterous boots, behind the knee, and pulling up, folding his leg against his chest, then grinding down against Crowley’s hard cock. He hasn’t sworn in centuries, but when a _fuck_ escapes his lips, he feels he’s entirely justified.

Crowley’s lips never leave him for a moment, on an ear, on his neck, on his jawline, around his tongue, and then he’s sliding down, and Aziraphale’s ankles and wrists tremble and jingle and his whole skin burns. His ridiculous wings weigh him down, but that’s alright, because there’s Crowley under him, and there is nothing in the whole world than he wants more than to be pressed against him.

He’s vaguely aware he’s muttering something – something about how beautiful he is, how good he is, and _ooh_ and _yes_ and _please_ , and _Crowley, Crowley, dear, dearest_ , and this time the demon doesn’t correct him.

When Crowley’s hand rubs desperately against his erection, through the fabric, Aziraphale decides – although it could be argued how much of _decision_ it is, rather than pure instinct – to do something he’s never done before. Lots of firsts today, it seems. He reaches down and rips at the delicate fabric of his underpants.

That’s all the encouragement Crowley needs, and he starts pushing him up and up, until he’s aligned Aziraphale’s hips with his head. He grabs at the straps on either side of the angel’s cock and pulls him down hard.

The sound Aziraphale makes when he’s enveloped in Crowley’s wet, hot, greedy mouth is somewhere between a moan and a plea – it’s too much, it’s too little, he doesn’t even know what it is. It’s, most of all, wrecking any trace of self-control he has left, and he’s terrified just as much as he’s excited. But Crowley’s nails sink into his hips and drag him down harder than he would dare, and when Aziraphale starts properly moving, properly fucking his mouth into the bed – he gets such an appreciative noise from Crowley he cannot believe it.

It seems to last forever, but actually it doesn’t, it’s just a dozen proper thrusts before he’s exploding into his mouth, and Crowley’s lips clamp down on the base of his cock hard, taking all of him, helping him over the edge.

Aziraphale slumps into the bed, trying to catch his breath and the crazed heartbeat in his chest.

Crowley slithers up, cupping his face into his hands and kissing him.

* * *

It takes Aziraphale not a short time to come back to Earth. When he does, his eyes first focus on Crowley, staring at him with his mask still on. He's patently waiting to be told whether he liked it. And here Aziraphale thought he’d left no room for misunderstandings.

He also realizes he’s been terribly selfish. Caught in the moment, he gave Crowley no attention at all. He must be aching in his pants. He puts a hand on the demon’s face. “That’s… that was…” He doesn’t have the words for it. “Astonishing.”

Crowley’s face lights up, and not even in the subtle way it does when he doesn’t want to show how pleased he is. Even with the mask and the lace over his eyes, the lovely lines around his mouth signal he’s happy. As happy as Aziraphale has ever seen him.

Oh, but his heart aches in his chest. Crowley deserves to be this happy every day. He realizes in that moment – he wants to be the one making him happy every day. But he can’t, he can’t.

That’s a thought for later, though, because now he’s pulling him close again. “Let’s do something for you now.”

Crowley’s face turns red and hot – which is absurd, considering what they’ve just done. But this is the very first time it happens, and for all that he wants to appear suave and self-assured and cool, his façade collapses under the weight of Aziraphale’s gaze.

“Desk.” He croaks out. “Would you? Bend over the desk, that is.”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows shoot up, because he understands what Crowley is asking him. The mere thought is enough to make his cock come back to life with a twitch. That’s a yes, then, isn’t it?

He stands up, not without some difficulty – wings impairing his movements quite a bit. He holds Crowley’s hand and pulls him up with him, and Crowley follows him off the bed with such a look of love in his eyes Aziraphale is tempted, in that moment, to forsake God and Heaven and make Hell his new home just for him.

They get to the desk and he leans down, elbows against its edge. He parts his legs, and the tips of his wings follow his thighs, separating to allow Crowley access. The demon places a hand on the small of his back, apparently needing a moment to steady himself. He reaches between his legs, to where Aziraphale already ripped the fabric, and tears it farther, all the way to his ass. Then, he crouches behind Aziraphale, pulls his cheeks apart, and goes in tongue first.

Aziraphale’s nails rattle on the desk, then he grasps at its edges hard. He didn’t see this coming – he’s not about to whine, though. Not when Crowley’s tongue stretches and reaches into him in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Not with Crowley’s hands gripping his thighs, surely leaving marks. He becomes aware he’s already hard again, and makes a petulant noise in the demon’s direction, asking.

As always, as it’s always been, Crowley obliges, stroking him as he sucks and pushes into him until he’s dripping wet. But, so quickly, it becomes not enough, so Aziraphale makes more noises, and his demon – he’s so good, he’s so smart – understands. He stands up, unbuttoning his pants, and must have miracled some sort of balm on his cock, because when he begins pushing in he’s slick, and Aziraphale quietly does something too to speed the process along, and Crowley slides into him much more easily than he should reasonably have.

Aziraphale arches his back, and that’s when he feels it – the best possible angle to be fucked in. “Please,” is all he has to say for Crowley to begin moving against him and into him. The demon grips the strap around his waist and hauls him back onto his cock.

He thrusts, slowly at first, then faster – and whenever he gets the angle slightly wrong Aziraphale gives him a sound that tells him in no uncertain terms what he wants. And Crowley, bless his soul, complies, forgetting himself. He hits that spot again, and again, and again, and now Aziraphale is hard and _wet_ , and Crowley isn’t touching his cock anymore, but the pressure might just be enough – and again, and again, and again, until reality shatters around him and he’s coming for the second time, clenching around Crowley inside him, making a mess all over the side of the desk, the floor, his stockings.

He’s babbling again – he recognizes some of the words, thanking Crowley and begging him to finish, _please_ , finish inside him, do it, make him feel it.

With a grunt that’s somewhere between pleasure and pain, Crowley bends over him, bites into the back of his neck, and fucks him hard and fast, and now it’s him losing words all over the place, about how he loves this, loves how he feels around him, loves, loves, _loves_ – and thankfully he keeps himself from saying out loud what Aziraphale already knows, what cannot be said out loud.

It’s with a breathy _angel_ whispered against the back of Aziraphale’s neck that he comes into him, grasping at his body, at his stupid wings, at any inch of skin he can reach. Aziraphale reaches out behind his neck to touch his cheek. It’s alright, it’s alright.

Crowley doesn’t let go immediately. He buries his face against the angel’s back, grips his shoulders with his hands. Aziraphale doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but he also _knows_. As soon as this is over, it’s all over.

The demon pulls out, helping Aziraphale up and turning him around, checking his body for any sign of hurt. Aziraphale would tell him – it was nothing but good, and where it hurt, it’s in a place that can’t be seen.

As he steadies his breathing and buttoning up his pants, Crowley fires off another small miracle to clean them up. He also mends Aziraphale’s torn clothes. The angel stands there, unable to say anything, until he is.

* * *

“Oh Lord.” He holds his head between his hands. “We shouldn’t— we shouldn’t have. An angel and a demon, we…”

“Hey, hey.” Crowley wraps his arms around him, as far as he’s allowed by his huge wings. “Steady now. What demon? I’m just a helpful passer-by, remember?”

Aziraphale nods. “Yes, yes, of course. But…” He looks up at Crowley’s face, and it’s just too much. He wants to sob, but presses away that urge. “Oh, this is not fair. It’s not fair at all. It’s not fair to you—”

“ _Shhh._ ” Crowley soothes him with a hand on his cheek. “It’s alright. I’ll take anything you can give me.”

Those words finish breaking Aziraphale’s heart. It breaks for Crowley, and it breaks for them, because they can't, they can't. They can't.

"It's alright, Mr. Fell. Here’s what’s going to happen now. You're going to straighten up, you’ll wear your ridiculously silly costume, and you’ll go do your duty. And I'll be there as well. As always."

"As always." Aziraphale repeats, a promise, as he squeezes the hand on his cheek before letting him go.

Crowley looks at him with so much love as he goes to the door that it’s unbearable.

* * *

Two hundred and seventy years later, Aziraphale is helping Crowley go through his things to decide what to bring and what to leave. Which is absurd, really – Crowley barely has anything at all. But he’s such a sentimental demon, and he has kept a series of keepsakes. That’s alright; the cottage will be big enough for all their stuff.

As he shuffles through Crowley’s apartment, his eyes fall on a big shoebox. Inside, he finds the famous boots from the 18th century he’s never quite forgotten. He’s overjoyed.

“Oh, you kept these!”

Crowley glances up from the pile of clothes he’s going through. “Course.”

“Why?”

“Well…” He waves a hand in the air, pretending Aziraphale doesn’t know him enough to read the embarrassment on his face. “It was the first time, we.”

Aziraphale smiles at him fondly. “Indeed. The first time, _we_.”

“And they look good, besides.”

“Oh, I quite agree.” He turns around to the eagle statue Crowley stole from the crumbled church during World War II. “Why did you keep that one?”

“Hm. You started looking at me differently after that day. So I went back and got it before it could be stolen.”

“I did.” Aziraphale runs a hand on the leg of a boot, smiling wider still to himself.

“How come, by the way?”

“Ah, that is…” Aziraphale feels a blush creeping over his cheeks. “That was the moment I realized I didn’t just love you, I was _in_ love with you, and that it wouldn’t go away if I just ignored it.”

“I could have told you that.” Crowley smirks at him.

“You wouldn’t have. You were far too kind—” Crowley gives him a little hiss at that. “To point out something like that.”

“I was not.”

“You were. You are.” A beat. Then, “For example, you didn’t have to give back the Nice and Accurate Prophecies—”

“Oh no, you’re not starting on that one again. I’m not listening.” Crowley stands in a hurry and goes to another room.

“Of Agnes Nutter. That’s an only copy, may I remind you—”

“Not listening, angel!”

“I have a whole section of prophecy books that could have housed it very well!”

“Not! Listening!” Crowley shouts, from the other room.

Aziraphale pouts and closes the box. They are most definitely keeping those boots.

After a few minutes, Crowley slinks back in. With all the swagger of someone who’s had time to find his footing in their relationship instead of being a rambling, blushing mess all the time, he hugs Aziraphale from behind.

“Y’know. If you drop the Agnes Nutter thing, I might wear them for you again. Just those and nothing else.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, not at all angelically. “We might have ourselves a deal, then.”[3]

[1] Aziraphale is the kid who follows instructions to a T and gets an A. Crowley is the artsy kid who, when asked to write an essay about the meaning of life, writes in big bold letters ‘not this’ on the page and turns it in like that. Then gets an A+.

[2] He asked for a room, but Aziraphale has a bit of a dirty mind where Crowley is concerned.

[3] Crowley kept his promise, Aziraphale didn’t.


End file.
